


Late Nights

by manatapped



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst and Feels, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, Insomnia, Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 17:59:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11446092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manatapped/pseuds/manatapped
Summary: It’s nights like these - those of the cold, early autumn - that stir up the dull ache of an old injury, and of the memories he’s tried so futilely to forget.--Anduin can't sleep, and a late-night board game brings back more memories than he anticipated. Many more.





	Late Nights

A waning moon hangs lazily in the sky, wispy tendrils of almost-clouds keeping it company while Stormwind sleeps below. The air is cool and crisp, a brisk wind blowing in from the harbor, dragging a bank of fog along with it. The Keep is quiet, the only movement in the looming halls coming from the night patrol making regular rounds. In his chambers, the king turns over in his bed, a weary sigh escaping his lips. It’s nights like these - those of the cold, early autumn - that stir up the dull ache of an old injury, and of the memories he’s tried so futilely to forget. Anduin sits up, dragging his hands down his face. 

The room around him feels massive, and in turn, he feels terribly tiny - a boy king playing house in the bedchambers that once belonged to his father. He’d had the decor changed months ago, certain that it would help ease the pain of the transition - as if new curtains and throw pillows would erase all of the memories steeped in the walls themselves. The nights he would sneak in, cheeks stained with tears and mind filled with nightmares of dark shapes and black dragons slinking through the shadows of the city. The stories his father would tell him, wild impossible tales designed to bore him to sleep in the wee hours of the morning. The shouted words and shattered glasses, and the apologies that would inevitably follow. Every little moment he spent wondering if he’d ever live up to the great legend that was Varian Wrynn.

An angry sigh comes from Anduin, the day’s mundane agenda not yet washed away by blessed sleep, and he shoves off the covers, running a hand through his hair. What had started as an ache brought on by the cold has turned into an almost paralyzing pain shooting up his entire leg, and with gritted teeth, he leans down to reach under the bed to grasp his cane. It had stayed hidden there for months, where no one could see it and he could almost forget that it was there, that he needed it. With a grunt, he pushes himself up, walking slowly across the cavernous space to the armoire situated in one corner of the room. It takes a good three tries for him to reach the box shoved all the way to the back on the top shelf, and when he finally grasps it and pulls it down, his fingers leave trails in the dust covering the lacquered surface. 

A dull, familiar throbbing starts in his chest, and Anduin shakes his head, shuffling over to the couch by the hearth, where the night’s fire has died down to nothing more than coals that do little to ward off the chill that fills the room. Anduin sets down his cane, sitting down slowly, and stares at the box where it sits on the coffee table. It had sat forgotten for many years now, and for good reason. Even now, he’s not sure what possessed him to take it down tonight.

Perhaps it’s fatigue, or the overwhelming sense of being alone despite the guards just outside the door and the entire Keep of people who would gladly entertain the late-night folly of the young king, but Anduin opens the box carefully, his fingers trembling slightly as he does. The pieces rest in their velvet-lined places, carved from polished river stones, each of them holding countless rounds of play in their weighted bodies. The set had been the one thing from the Tavern in the Mists, from the entire journey to Pandaria, that Anduin had kept. Everything else had been destroyed in a fit of rage - either burned or smashed to pieces - but he’d kept the jihui set because…

_Because you can’t say goodbye, my prince._

Anduin’s gaze flicks up from the box to the chair opposite him and finds it filled with a wraith, the perfect visage that has haunted him for many more nights than he would ever care to admit. It’s become almost a game, to see whether or not he can make it a week, or even a few days without his mind playing these cruel tricks on him. Many times, the young king has considered speaking to someone about these visits, about perhaps letting another priest root around in his mind and flush out whatever lingering influence the other man might still hold over him, but that always becomes a thought he can’t bear. Even if he’s tortured for the rest of his life, it’s still the very last shred of contact he has, however fleeting.

_You look tired, Anduin Wrynn._

Anduin’s eyes narrow, locking with the burning red gaze for a moment before they return to the box before him. He reaches for it, unfolding the simple playing board to begin arranging the pieces - white for him, black for his guest. It’s a familiar routine, setting up the game, and Anduin takes momentary relief from the weight on his mind as his hands move almost automatically.

_How long has it been since you’ve slept?_

“Long enough,” Anduin says, voice gruff from lack of use, and from the building frustration at the mocking tone and knowing smirk of the man across from him.

_Is something bothering you, my prince?_

“It’s king now,” Anduin says, rubbing his knee absently. “We’ve had this discussion.”

A short laugh comes from the other man, and he leans forward, one black-nailed hand reaching out to make the first move of the game. It’s a predictable move, one that makes Anduin smile in its familiarity, and he moves a piece of his own, keeping his eyes firmly on the board rather than chancing a look across the table.

_You did not answer my question._

“Everything is bothering me, Wrathion.” The name stings on his tongue, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He swallows hard, continuing without missing a beat. “The Legion is advancing, the Kirin Tor is rending apart from the inside out, and my father is dead.”

_Such troubles, my prince._

The wraith makes another move, leaning back in his chair and tenting his fingers as he watches the blond contemplate his strategy.

_What do you think your great father would say if he saw you now?_

“I don’t know. And I thank the Light that I don’t have to find out.” It’s a truth wrapped in a bitter excuse - Anduin wishes beyond hope that he could ask his father for help, that he was still here to guide him. If he was, he would still be king, and he wouldn’t let his son fret about things so clearly over his head. His father would know what to do, and how to lead the Alliance in the war for the fate of the world. If his father was still alive, Anduin wouldn’t be trading empty words with a figment of his imagination.

_It pains me to see you so beleaguered, Anduin Wrynn._

Anduin snorts, remaining silent for the next few moments as they trade moves.

_Really, it does._

“Why don’t I believe that?” Anduin muses, chancing a quick glance to find Wrathion watching him, brow furrowed.

_Why do you doubt me?_

“Because I know you, Wrathion. I know how you say things to gain the response you want. And right now, you want me to forgive you.”

_Then why won’t you? If only just to humor me?_

“Because I don’t.” Anduin’s jaw is set, and he slams his piece down on the board loud enough that the dull sound echoes off the walls around him. “And I won’t.”

The wraith is silent, and Anduin takes a small amount of pleasure in knowing that even his exhausted hallucinations have no argument against his words.

_I shall return each night until you do, my prince. If you know me as you say you do, then you know the truth in my words._

“You can come back every night until the end of time. I won’t change my mind.”

Wrathion remains silent, moving a piece quietly before reaching out to take Anduin’s hand in his. The realness of the embrace is surreally startling to Anduin, who, despite knowing full well that he’s been imagining the whole exchange, can feel the weight and familiar heat of the other’s touch. Blue eyes meet crimson, and for a moment, Anduin can almost believe that this is real. The wraith smiles, the same expression that had once both infuriated and enthralled the bleary-eyed young man.

_Very well, my king. Until the end of time._


End file.
